Christmas Cards
by eska elizabeth
Summary: Tom and Sybil owe more to Gwen's Christmas cards than they realize. One-shot.


**Short side note: I did a bit of research on 20th century Christmas cards (possibly the most random thing ever) and know that they weren't primarily a "middle class" exchange, but for the sake of this story they are!**

* * *

 **1925**

 _"Did you keep in contact?" Tom asked, knowing the answer._

 _"Christmas cards and such," Gwen replied._

* * *

 **1914**

"Will that be all, milady?"

Lady Sybil smiled sympathetically. "I'm afraid not. I have one more errand to do before we head back to Downton."

"And where would such an errand be, milady?" he asked.

"I want to—oh, here it is!"

"Would you like me to let you out here, milady?" asked Tom, swerving the car in front of the shop. At first glance, it seemed to be a plain retail store until he realized it was nearly _too_ plain for the daughter of an earl to be shopping at.

"No, I'll park the car with you," said Lady Sybil.

"It may take a minute—"

"You'll have to tell me more about your feelings on the war, then, to fill the time."

He grinned. "I'm not sure there's an feeling of mine you haven't heard, milady."

"Then you might have to come up with some."

It didn't take long for Tom to notice a back road to park on that appeared to be fairly unpopular and also near Lady Sybil's shop. He pulled over to the side of the road, turned off the motor, and helped Lady Sybil out of the car before climbing back into the driver's seat.

"What are you doing, Branson?" Lady Sybil asked as he reached to pick up the book he had brought.

"I brought something to read, milady, unless you'd prefer I just sit here with the car."

She laughed. "No, that's alright. I know it must be terribly boring, driving us around for our Christmas shopping."

He shrugged. "I don't mind. Besides, I don't have a right to complain—I _am_ getting paid to drive you all around for your Christmas shopping."

"Right," said Lady Sybil. "I wonder if I might impose on your time a bit longer?"

Tom returned his book to its resting spot on the floor. "Of course, milady," he said, stepping down from the car to join her on the pavement. "Though I must warn you, my opinions on dresses and women's fashion in general are usually quite bland."

"Oh, no," she said, leading him in the direction of the shop. "No, I want your opinion on a gift for a friend. You may know her better than I do, in a certain regard."

"If you mean from listening to conversations in the car," he said cautiously, "I swear I don't mean to, only your family's acquaintances talk too loud for their own good and I can't help overhearing one thing or another every once in awhile."

"I'm glad you're honest with me, Branson," said Lady Sybil amusedly, "but I don't think she ever rode in the car."

"Oh?" said Tom, confused. "Then who is this 'friend' that you and I both know?"

Lady Sybil hesitated, her heels clicking on the sidewalk. "It's Gwen."

"Gwen? The housemaid-turned-secretary that only left a few months ago?"

"The very same," said Lady Sybil, a bit proudly. "Only...you see, I want to get her a gift, but then I thought that might be humiliating for her, especially since I only have the address to the telephone company she works for—"

Tom shook his head. "Forgive me, milady, but I'm not sure I understand how anyone could be humiliated by a gift you selected for them."

"Not intentionally, I hope!" Lady Sybil clarified. "It's just that...if she had to explain to people that the present is from her former employer at Downton Abbey, it might raise some embarrassing questions she may not want to answer about her old position. Since I only have the address for the company she works at."

"Gwen's a smart lass. If she were embarrassed by your present she'd hide it or come up with some other story. Besides, her 'former employer' helped her get the job in the first place," he reminded her. "And anyway, Downton's a fine place to work with fine people. I'm sure Gwen has many fond memories of it that she would love to share with other people."

"Perhaps—"

"Milady, if you'll allow me to say so, it's very kind of you to be so anxious about giving Gwen a gift," said Tom, entering the store behind her. "I believe it's the thought that counts."

He looked around the store around them, realizing that this was not the typical opulent store that the Crawleys would ordinarily go to. No—he observed, watching Lady Sybil sift through a bucket of children's toys sitting out on display—this was definitely not a place he would have expected someone of the house to shop at. It wasn't that the store was particular shabby—it was just that it was quite... _simple_ , and essentially the same type of place his mother could be found around this time of year.

"I'm not anxious, in particular," said Lady Sybil distantly, still mesmerized by the toys. "Just...concerned."

"Of course," said Tom, entertained by her amazement at such a normal store. "So what type of gift is it you're searching for, milady?"

"This is why I enlisted you," she said, turning back to him. "I know this may sound rather.. _discriminatory_ of me, but…."

"But…?" he prompted.

"I don't want to get her something that could be perceived as insensitive, if you know what I mean," said Lady Sybil.

"I'm afraid I don't, milady," he said. "You're both young women...is it the class difference you're worried about?"

"Yes," she confessed. "I know how to get gifts for, say, Mary or Edith or even the men I met in London—" (she didn't notice Tom wince at this) "—but I don't know what to give a...a working woman."

So _that_ was why they were in this sort of store. "I see," said Tom slowly. "If you don't mind me saying so, milady, I daresay Gwen would appreciate anything, whether it is something you would give Lady Mary or, say, Daisy."

"I suppose," Lady Sybil said. "It seems unfair there is such a large difference between the types of things Mary and Daisy would expect to receive. And to think, Mary gets too many ridiculously beautiful presents from too many people, whereas Daisy…." She shuffled through a rack of winter coats. "I'm sorry, Branson. I'm being rude. I don't mean to speak ill of Daisy...or Mary."

"I don't think you're being rude, milady. In fact, I agree," he said. "It _is_ unfair that we can live under the same roof but have vastly different lifestyles."

Lady Sybil stepped away from the coats. "You don't live under our roof."

"No," Tom conceded with a nod off his head. "But I live off your father's generosity, which should be included for the sake of—"

"I was kidding, Branson," she said immediately, her cheeks flushed. "I didn't mean to offend you." Before he could apologize as well, she continued, "So, what should we get Gwen?"

"We?" he repeated.

"It's not only from me if you help me choose it," said Lady Sybil.

"Milady, I'm not sure—"

"Nonsense," she said. "I won't listen to your protests. You will help me pick out something for her, I will buy it, and I will say it's from the both of us."

Tom swallowed. Truthfully, he didn't mind; however, he knew if someone (Mrs. Hughes) somehow (through the post) saw Lady Sybil had addressed something to Gwen as from 'Sybil and Branson,' it would inevitably raise questions he most definitely would not be able to answer without reddening guiltily. He'd have to make sure he personally delivered the parcel to the post office without Mr. Carson or Mrs. Hughes's prying eyes—the former was all-too-aware of everything happening upstairs and downstairs, and the latter had kept a watchful eye on his activities involving Lady Sybil since the garden party.

"Branson? What do you say to this necklace?"

"My poor opinions on fashion also extend to jewelry, milady," he said.

"Then we won't get it," Lady Sybil declared, replacing the locket on its designated hanger.

"Milady, you needn't put it back—I'm sure Gwen would love that necklace," Tom said, upon realizing she truly was taking his impressions into serious consideration.

"It should be from the both of us," she said firmly. "Here's an idea: what would you get your mother for Christmas?"

"My mother?"

"Or your sisters. Or brothers, for that matter."

"I...since I'm in England over Christmas, I don't really give them anything except my paycheck," sad Tom honestly. "But this year I might send each person a Christmas card. Not too expensive, but thoughtful nonetheless." He didn't know why he was telling her his true plans—a 'proper' chauffeur would tell her he would be getting his family the best gifts to prove he was satisfied with his pay and spent the money he earned appropriately. Then again, a proper chauffeur would not be wandering through a retail store with the daughter of his employer.

Lady Sybil gasped. "A Christmas card, that's it! That's perfect! Do they have them here, I wonder?"

"I think I saw a few as we walked in, milady."

She rushed to the front and gasped again when she found the cards. "Branson, you're brilliant," she said, looking at the different cards.

"I try, milady."

Lady Sybil was too immersed in the beautifully illustrated cards to hear his sarcasm. "Which would you like?" she said, showing him her favorite three.

"I suppose I'd get my mother the one with 'SEASONS GREETINGS' on top of the holly and mistletoe."

"This one it is, then," said Lady Sybil decidedly. She strode up to the counter confidently, purchased the cheap card, and found Tom waiting up front.

As the two walked back to the car together, Sybil said nervously, "I hope I'm not being too forward, asking for your help and forcing you to let me put your name in it."

"I don't mind. And nothing's ever too forward for me, milady," he promised. "That I can assure you."

* * *

 **1915**

"See this one, milady?"

Lady Sybil hurried over to the card Tom was currently glaring at with a cartoon soldier comforting his sweetheart, the ironic words 'BEST WISHES' above their heads. "Why do _all_ of these have to be political?" she said exasperatedly. "Nobody needs a reminder that the war is going on."

"Apparently some people think otherwise," said Tom, annoyed, a different card of a soldier with a gift in one hand and a bar of chocolate in the other catching his eye. "Here's one about last Christmas's ceasefires. I doubt that'll happen again."

"That was certainly rare," she agreed. "We should remain optimistic. Who knows, maybe everyone will realize how ridiculous the war is and call it off as a Christmas gift to the whole of Europe."

"I don't mean to be the bearer of bad news, milady, but the likeliness of that happening is close to nothing," Tom said nearly against his will, her optimism practically melting his heart. "Europeans are far too proud for that to ever transpire."

"You're a European, too."

"I never denied that I was proud, milady."

She grinned. "No. Er, do you think Gwen would like this one? It's rather plain, but—"

"—it's not about the war," Tom finished, examining the card that simply said 'WITH BEST WISHES FOR A HAPPY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR' on the bow of a wrapped gift. "I said it last year, milady, and my thoughts haven't changed: Gwen will enjoy anything you send her. People like being remembered."

"I'll keep that in mind, Branson, thank you," said Lady Sybil, turning to the cashier to purchase the card.

"Myself included," he nearly added for a reason he couldn't quite identify, but instead he opted for saying, "Of course, milady."

* * *

 **1916**

"I've sent Gwen another Christmas card. I got it in York."

Tom smiled weakly as Sybil walked in, folding his arms across his chest and leaning against the wall of the garage. He was always glad to see her, and especially thrilled she had made time to come see him during her busy few days at Downton before she resumed her training course. But he couldn't hide his disappointment that she'd come to speak about Gwen and not the declined proposal.

"I'm glad, milady," he said coolly. "I hope she's well."

"She sent one already," Sybil said, suddenly extending an envelope to him rather rigidly.

He accepted it warily. "Is this it?" She nodded. "Why do you wish for me to read it, milady?"

"She asked after you, that's all," said Sybil— _Lady_ Sybil, he reminded himself—quickly. "You don't have to read it. I only thought you'd like to."

"Thank you, milady."

"Keep it...er, for now. You can give it back to me when...when you take me back to York," she explained. "That is all." She paused. "Happy Christmas, Branson."

"Happy Christmas, milady," he replied automatically.

When Tom could no longer hear her footsteps, he flipped open the envelope and slid the card out. The front was a drawing of a snowscape with the words 'HAPPY CHRISTMAS' printed in the bottom right corner. A folded note fell out of the card upon opening it, but he disregarded it and read the short message Gwen had inscribed on the inside:

 _Lady Sybil,_

 _I saw this card and was reminded of the snowy Christmases at Downton, and knew I had to send this to you (which is why I have posted it prior to receiving yours). I miss Downton, but I still enjoy my job!_

 _I pray you are as happy as I during this season. I also hope you and Mr. Branson are well!_

 _Wishing you the best,_

 _Gwen_

Was it just him, or did Gwen's wording suggest she believed he was courting Sybil? (Rather, that Sybil was courting him?) Was that why she had given Gwen's card to him so randomly? Did Sybil truly believe Gwen was innocently asking after his well-being, or did she realize what Gwen might have meant with her phrasing?

With a defeated sigh, Tom picked up the note that had fallen out with every intention to return it to the card, but it caught his eye when he noticed it said 'To Branson.' He immediately tossed Gwen's card aside and unfolded the letter, his heart nearly pounding out of his chest as he began to read:

 _Branson—_

 _I am sorry we have not yet had the chance to discuss what you confessed to me in York a month ago. I was planning on giving you my response on the drive back, but was unable to since Mary and Edith came to pick me up. I must admit, when I saw you were not there I was alarmed and immediately assumed you had resigned, only to be reassured by Edith that you had not. Upon realizing I was horrified by the idea of you not being at Downton, I have come to acknowledge that while I may not share all of your passionate feelings, I do hold you in high esteem and regard you as a strong friend. I do not think I can quite give you a definitive answer to what I interpreted as your proposal, but know that I will strongly entertain the possibility of pursuing a life with you. If it suits you, I will tell you of my choice when I am ready and it is convenient to both of us._

 _As I promised, I will not tell anyone of what you said a month ago, not out of shame but out of fear you will lose your position if I do. I hope that in the meanwhile we can remain friends and enjoy each other's company._

 _Yours always,_

 _Sybil_

She had not given him the straight answer he would have hoped for, but she had conceded that she had some sort of feelings for him and was not completely turning him down. Somehow, Tom felt himself falling more in love with Lady Sybil Crawley.

* * *

 **1917**

"I thought you might be in here."

Tom smirked, wiping off his hands on a rag and flinging it onto a stool. "Where else would I be?" he said.

"Oh, I don't know. Many of the soldiers are going home if they can. A Christmas surprise for their families. You could have been taxiing them to the train station," Sybil said passively, taking a step closer to him. "I got Gwen a card if you would like to sign it."

"Sign it? My permissions are getting more and more flexible every year," he teased. "I haven't got a pen in here, but there's one in my cottage, if you've got a moment."

"I've brought one," she said, handing him the card and unfastening the fountain pen from the apron of her nurse's uniform.

He opened it, skimmed over the note Sybil had written, and added his own short signature beside hers. "No secret messages this year, I see," Tom commented, passing the card and pen back over to her.

She blushed. "There's no need," she said, reattaching the pen to the inside of her apron. Sybil turned to leave, but quickly turned back before she had left the garage. "They're not having the Servants' Ball this year because of the soldiers. But they are going to have a new year's celebration with the soldiers and the servants and everyone. You will come, won't you?"

"I'd be happy to," said Tom.

She looked visibly relieved at his positive response. "I'm afraid there will be dancing."

"That's not too bad, so long as you save a dance for me," he said, grinning.

Sybil smiled. "I can do that."

* * *

 **1918**

She still hadn't given him an answer.

The war was over—it had been for weeks now. Downton Abbey remained a convalescent home for the time being, but Tom had heard someone mention that the soldiers would leave within the first few weeks of the new year. Despite the lingering soldiers who required her services, Sybil had made an effort to come out to the garage and speak with him. However, they'd only discussed politics: the state different nations were left in after the war; the fairness of Germany's punishment; what the men coming home from the front would mean for women who had taken up positions in their absence. Every time he heard her footsteps, he hoped she had come with a piece of news tailored to _them_ instead of a random tidbit of international drama that he could care less about.

Today when she strode into his workspace, unannounced, she came with a sense of purpose—he could tell they would not merely be debating bureaucratic affairs.

"Are you doing anything right now?" Sybil asked as soon as he saw her.

"Nothing that can't wait," Tom answered, quickly forgetting the newspaper he had just begun to read and subconsciously straightening his posture.

"Good," she said. "I've an errand to run."

"Do you have the afternoon off, then?"

Sybil nodded. "Yes."

"Where do you need to go?"

"Just into the village, if you've got time."

"I've always got time."

She blushed.

"I'll go tell Mr. Carson, if you don't mind."

"I've already told Mrs. Hughes."

"Then we should be leaving." He smiled, opening the door to the Renault. "Milady?"

Sybil took his hand as he helped her into the back of the car, before he shrugged on his coat and put on his hat. "You know," she said, while he climbed into the front seat, "you don't have to call me 'milady.'"

"I won't if you don't call me Branson."

"Fine," she said. "Tom it is, then. And you can call me Sybil."

The engine roared to life and the car drove out of the garage, and Tom couldn't keep the smile off his face as they passed through the gates. "Where exactly are we going, milady?"

"What did I say about that?"

"Old habits die hard," he laughed, stealing a glance back at her amused expression.

"Just the post office. I've yet to get Gwen a card, if you'd like to help me choose it."

"I'd love to, mil—" He cut himself off.

"I think we've past the point of servant-mistress, haven't we, _Tom."_

"I daresay we did a long time ago, _Sybil,"_ Tom agreed lightly.

The drive into the village was quick, and they only had to park on the side of the road. "You don't have to help me down, either," Sybil said as he made to get out.

He smirked. "It's my job to."

"It's _my_ prerogative to tell you not to," she challenged.

"Very well," said Tom, mocking reluctance. "I can still open the door for you, though, can't I?"

"That you may," she said, enjoying their comfortable repartee.

They were at a stage, Tom thought to himself while opening her door, where neither was quite sure how to act around the other. Both were waiting for Sybil's pending reply to his proposal, causing Tom to feel slightly uneasy around her. Of course, her warm spirit was quick to slow (or augment) the heart palpitations he experienced in her presence; still, something was undeniably a bit awkward about their interactions. Tom had learned early on after he'd proposed to her that it was better to pray in the present than fret about the future—Sybil, it seemed, was simply ignoring the answer she would inevitably have to provide. He minded, naturally, and didn't want to be put off much longer, but he wanted her to be sure, even though he knew she was in love with him.

What else could what they had be called besides "love"?

Because it was the first Christmas season after the war, the post office was quite busy for its cramped space. Tom and Sybil stood very close together as they shifted around the store until they found the small stock of cards.

"This one's nice," he observed, motioning to a card with a few poinsettias and the words 'A MERRY CHRISTMAS TO YOU' printed elegantly on the front.

She looked to the one he pointed at. "You've really got an eye for Christmas cards," she said, taking the card off the shelf and admiring it. "That's that, then." Sybil bought the card and borrowed a pen from the postal worker behind the counter.

"Do you mind signing it?" she asked.

"Right now?"

"Yes, before I do," said Sybil. "There's, er, just a quick note I want to write. To her. Without any...prying eyes."

"'Course I don't mind," said Tom, "unless this note you're writing is about me."

Sybil rolled her eyes, watching him sign his name on the back of the card. "I'm complaining about your ego," she said.

"I'd expect no less," he said cheekily, nearly adding a "milady" but catching himself. She smiled at him over her shoulder.

* * *

 **1919**

"Does the post office have Christmas cards?"

Tom looked up from the book he was reading. "For Gwen?" he asked, smiling at the idea of Sybil's tradition continuing in Ireland.

"Yes. I wanted to send her one early on in the month, so that she has our address and doesn't send it to Downton," explained Sybil.

"Didn't you tell her about the wedding? So she knows you're not there anymore?"

"Oh, yes," she said. "I invited her. She declined because she didn't have the number of days off that would have been needed for the journey. I knew she wouldn't be able to come, but I was sad to hear it, anyway."

He frowned. "You never told me."

"I found out the next day that Mama and Papa wouldn't be coming," said Sybil, coming over to sit next to him on the sofa. "My disappointment at Gwen's answer was eclipsed by theirs."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"It's not your fault," she said, her tone laced with slightly bitter finality. "Anyway, do they have Christmas cards? I was planning on killing two birds with one stone after I drop off my letters to Mary and Edith."

"I'd think they'd carry some sort of holiday cards," said Tom. "Speaking of Mary and Edith, have you written to your mother about the news?"

Sybil beamed—Tom could tell she was still as excited about their pregnancy as she had been when it was confirmed. "Not yet. I was going to ask you to help me write it."

"I can do that."

"Would it be alright if I sent it a few days before Christmas, so they learn of the news as...perhaps as another 'gift' from us?" she said, walking across the room to put on her coat. "I don't know if they'll be pleased. I think Mama will, but I'm not sure about Papa—"

"Nonsense," Tom interrupted. "They'll be pleased. I know it. And of course you can send it then, you needn't ask my permission."

She smiled gratefully, leaning over the sofa to give him a quick kiss. "I'm going to head to the post office now, but I should be back within the hour."

He suddenly closed his book and and threw it onto the coffee table in the center of the room. "I'll come with you, if you don't mind."

"I don't. Is something the matter?"

"Not particularly. I just fancy a walk with my wife. You know," Tom said abruptly, "I don't think I've seen you wear that coat yet. It looks very nice."

"I thought you're always going on about how little you know of fashion?"

"I know little of fashion," he said, looping her arm into his, "when it is not being flaunted by you."

Sybil smirked. "A pregnant woman wearing a coat can hardly be considered 'flaunting,' darling."

"It is in my book," said Tom, kissing her temple as they set off into the chilly Dublin air.

After Sybil had handed over Mary and Edith's letters to the postal worker, Tom if they carried Christmas cards and to their delight, they did have a small selection. It didn't take long for Tom to find a quirky one that Sybil liked, with two dogs sledding together in the snow and 'A HAPPY CHRISTMAS' written on the front. She composed a short message and had Tom sign it before she posted Gwen's card as well.

"I've never mentioned it to you," Sybil said as they walked back to their flat, "but I told Gwen in last year's card that I was probably not going to be at Downton."

"So Gwen knew your answer before I did?" said Tom bemusedly.

"I said I might be living in Ireland by the next year, yes," she said. "She was under the impression we were courting, anyway. I'm sure she assumed what I meant."

"I did gather that," he said, remembering Sybil's hidden note in Gwen's card. "I take it the wedding invitation didn't come as much of a surprise, then?"

"I don't think so, no." Sybil paused. "I suppose we owe a great deal to mine and Gwen's correspondence. I've no idea how I would have snuck you that letter after you proposed."

"You could've just spoken to me," suggested Tom.

"You're the one who has a way with words, not me," she said. "You must admit, it was quite romantic to pass forbidden notes, wasn't it?"

"Indeed, it was, milady."

"Don't call me that... _Branson."_

Tom smiled.

* * *

 **I guess it's a bit late for Christmas, but it's still the holiday season...right? Hope you enjoyed my first foray into _Downton Abbey!_ :)**


End file.
